


I Love My Love with an R

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alcohol, Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-27
Updated: 2008-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:18:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's always known that Teyla has a mischievous side, a whimsy within her that can be glimpsed in the wide curve of her smile and the warmth of her eyes, in that certain wry tone of hers, in the quirk of her eyebrows in the instant before her bantos rods smack really hard against your ass. It's a mischief that she normally keeps as reined in as her sarcasm: that is, she turns it sly and shy and gives it a fine, hidden edge that could cut if she wanted it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love My Love with an R

**Author's Note:**

> For Tardis80, who wanted kissing games. Thanks to Sheafrotherdon for audiencing.

John's always known that Teyla has a mischievous side, a whimsy within her that can be glimpsed in the wide curve of her smile and the warmth of her eyes, in that certain wry tone of hers, in the quirk of her eyebrows in the instant before her bantos rods smack really hard against your ass. It's a mischief that she normally keeps as reined in as her sarcasm: that is, she turns it sly and shy and gives it a fine, hidden edge that could cut if she wanted it to.

He's been on the receiving end of it a couple times, and it's left him glad for all that it's made him wince, because he's got the feeling that this is exactly what it would have been like to have a sister who cared about him enough to give him hell.

But John might have to reconsider that position, because he's learning another thing about Teyla tonight: if you get enough roos wine into her, all that restraint of hers will slip away. Slowly at first, but by the time she and Jennifer get to wondering if the wine will mix well with some fizzy hantha juice and that hooch that Radek calls vodka, she's wide-eyed and giggling, the curves of her vowels too rounded and careful, and her voice carries clear across the room when she agrees with Jennifer that drinking games are an excellent idea.

"Spin th'bottle!" Jennifer exclaims, looking far too perky for someone who's just spent three days straight in the infirmary tending to the wounded of a battle that had finally counted, and who is currently into her fourth straight hour of drinking, camped out on the floor in John's room. "You sit, an' you spin the bottle, an' then you get seven minutes in heaven. But once I only got five because Jimmy Sanchez puked on my shoes."

"That game sounds most wonderful," Teyla says, her expression serious as she tries to get the little purple umbrella—and really, John wonders, where the hell had Radek found drinks umbrellas in the Pegasus Galaxy?—to balance just so in her drink. "But I was thinking we could p'rps—peraps—maybe try a traditional Athosian game. _Saito_. It is very simple. No bottles or religious beliefs are necessary—you take a drink, and then you kiss someone. Quiiiiiite intensely." She makes a low sound of satisfaction as she finally gets the little umbrella arranged as she wants it, then sits back on her heels to beam at them all.

And suddenly John is almost glad that it was just him and Dave during all those awkward teen years of acne and voices breaking and slamming doors—because sober or not, he knows there's no way this can end well. Because Teyla's got that look of sunny determination on her face, because she's grinning at them all, at him and Ronon and Radek and Sam (or would be, if Sam weren't passed out on the floor, her head pillowed on a snoozing Lorne's stomach) and Jennifer and _Rodney_—and he takes it all back, this isn't mischief. This is _evil_.

He expected better of Teyla than evil, John thinks sadly.

And it's especially evil because John's just drunk enough that the thought of kissing Rodney in front of other people, in front of pretty much everyone who's important to him in this galaxy or any other, sends adrenaline buzzing through his blood; but he's sober enough to know that it would be a bad idea, _bad_, because this kind of thing is suppose to be a joke, a game, and the thing with Rodney is that John never knows when to _stop_—

From his perch on the couch, John sees Ronon cast a sceptical look first at a grinning Teyla, then at a softly hiccuping Jennifer, before he shakes his head in what John recognises as the universal symbol for _hell no_.

"C'mon," Ronon grunts, first heaving himself to his feet, and then Jennifer, "Not gonna listen to you complain about your liver tomorrow." He wraps one arm around her, and starts to propel her towards the door, ignoring her admiring comments about his arm muscles and aiming a surreptitious kick at Lorne's ribs as he passes.

Lorne wakes up with a snort and a grunt; his hair's all mussed up for the first time since John's known him, but his face is still somehow boyish and clean-cut for all that knocked back more spirits than Ronon did tonight. His shambling attempts to get up set off a kind of chain reaction, making everyone else remember that they're nearly all on the far side of forty and should at least be making an attempt at acting responsibly and getting to bed before dawn; Sam yawns as she waves goodnight to them at the door, and Radek lures Teyla back towards her own room with the promise of a whole box full of little drinks umbrellas and a very large glass of water.

John sets the door to lock behind all of them, then thinks off the lights and staggers over to his bed. The adrenaline that comes with winning and the high that comes with a lot of alcohol fade so suddenly out of his system that it's as much as he can do to toe out of his boots and land face-down on the bed. Rodney's shoulder is an obstacle his nose didn't particularly want to meet.

"Mmpfh," Rodney says, "nap," which is probably the most he's uttered since he walked into the room at top speed two hours ago, his arms and face still grimy and greasy from his work on the chair. He'd snagged a bottle of Athosian ale from the table and downed it all in three large gulps before collapsing backward onto the bed in an exhausted stupor, not moving even during Radek's tone-deaf rendition of half of Roxette's back catalogue.

"Sleeeeeep," John croons in agreement, revelling in the pleasant kind of burn you get behind your eyelids when you can finally close them after three days of watching the skies burn. "Pillooows." He wriggles a little closer to Rodney, not wanting to bother about blankets or sheets when it's late and he's drunk and Rodney's body is solid and warm next to his.

He settles down with his head resting against Rodney's shoulder, and there's a long, wordless moment, filled only with the sound of their breathing and the rhythmic stroking of one of Rodney's big hands along his side. It feels nice. "Rodney," John says, drawing the vowels out in a way he knows always makes Rodney both pissy and nervous.

"What?" Rodney says, voice snapping for all that he's still drowsing, "_What_?"

"If I had a bottle," John says, brushing his lips against the steady thrum of the pulse in Rodney's throat.

"You have plenty," Rodney grumps, shifting to get more comfortable on the narrow little bed and coincidentally slinging his arm over John's waist while he's at it. "'Nough bottles to start recycling f'cility in th'morning. Go sleep."

"No," John says, and he shifts just enough that he can look Rodney in the face, for all that the room around them is dim. He kicks ineffectually at Rodney, stocking feet tangling with stocking feet. "Noooooo, if I had a bottle, I'd totally play spin the bottle only with you."

Rodney blinks at him.

"That's a metaphor," John clarifies for him, balancing himself over Rodney on arms that are suddenly wobbly; he feels much more drunk than he did only a few moments ago. "S'm'le. Euph'msm. Thing."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "You are drunk," he says. "And a massive dork."

"Well, _duh_," John says earnestly. He doesn't know why that makes Rodney laugh, full-throated and honest; doesn't know why that makes Rodney reach up to tangle dirty fingers in John's hair and tug his mouth close so that they can kiss and kiss and kiss; doesn't know why his pulse stutters when Rodney takes them slower, deeper, the tip of Rodney's tongue tracing against John's lower lip so lightly that it pulls a full-body shiver from John.

It's just the truth, simple and unvarnished, the kind of truth that Rodney drags out of John half a dozen times a day, making John betray himself with each too-clumsy word. John doesn't know why it's the kind of thing that makes Rodney laugh like he's truly happy, but he knows this much—that no matter how much he gets turned around, no matter how much he twists himself up, John will always end up back here: a voice murmuring soft in his ear, strong arms around him, the comfort and heat of a familiar mouth, Rodney, true north, home.


End file.
